Children of Ash
by thisccounthasbeenDELETED
Summary: The Battle of Hogwarts had failed; but Harry, Hermione, and Ron were all helpless to do anything, just as forlorn and clueless as when they'd started. So much pain in so little time had been thrust upon their young shoulders, but they bore it with gritted teeth for the sake of the world. However, this had only been a mere taste of the ash that was to fall… [Eventual HermionexDraco]
1. Prologue

My Dear Readers,

I am extremely determined to make this story as beautifully and elegantly dark and entrancing as I am able to. It will be a story with adventure, loss, war, friendship, and romance (I am a Dramione fan, so deal with it).

This is primarily based off of the books, though some elements of the movie are incorporated. It begins right after Harry has revealed himself to Voldemort in the Great Hall during the 'final battle.' However, instead of killing the Dark Lord, Voldemort escapes in his weakened state, thus prolonging the war.

Also, in my version, Fred hasn't died. I couldn't bear to leave him.

PLEASE comment, constructive criticism makes me very happy and helps me write faster.

Thank you my lovelies,

Kat

**Disclaimer: All the characters in this fanfiction belong to JK Rowling and the Harry Potter series. I am just borrowing them and playing pretend ;)

* * *

><p><em><span>Prologue<span>_

It came down like snow, pale little flakes flitting about upon the breeze, softly coating the ground beneath their feet. But the wind carried the chilling cold of an early day, and the scent of fire and ash was thick in the air. The salt of blood and tears mixed fluidly upon the ancient, broken stones; flowing freely from the bodies that littered the grounds. Everything was in ruins. Everything had failed. All that remained was bitter grief and suffocating fear. But they were all helpless to do anything, just as forlorn and clueless as when they'd started.

The battle of Hogwarts had not ended well for the side of the Light. The Dark Lord and his followers had devastated the castle and everyone protecting it. Both sides had sustained heavy losses, and everything was coated in layers of dripping scarlet. The cowards and their master had vanished during the final battle when Harry had revealed himself. Once the snake had been killed, its owner had felt the searing pain of his soul being destroyed. He'd become weaker with every horcrux the boy had defeated, and towards the end, his anger and agony had coupled into seething fury. But enraged as he was, Tom Riddle had never been foolish. With the last horcrux gone, and Harry being very much alive, he knew that there was a chance of defeat. And so, he withdrew himself before his inevitable demise. It was a small blessing of relief for the fighters of the Light, but a heavy dread still lingered; Voldemort had survived. Now, though, was not the time to think of such things. Now was time to mourn.

Hermione sat with Ron upon one of the remaining tables, looking despairingly at her friend. Harry still stood motionless in the Great Hall, staring at the place where he had revealed himself to the dark wizard not an hour ago. She could see from his stance and the dull look of his emerald eyes that he blamed himself for not acting soon enough, and she longed to tell him otherwise. They had been so damnably close. But in the end, the Dark Ones had fled with their leader. Tears of anger pricked her eyes as she looked at the broken boy and all of the others who had gathered in the hall. So much pain in so little time had been thrust upon their young shoulders, but they bore it with gritted teeth for the sake of the world. However, this had only been a mere taste of the ash that was to fall…


	2. Chapter 1

_1_

Hermione was ever so tired. Setting her pack down by the overturned troll's leg—nobody had the heart to fix it after Tonks's death—she walked down the hall and collapsed into the stiff kitchen chair of No.12 Grimmauld Place. Ron and Harry hadn't returned yet, and Kreacher was nowhere to be seen. She was left alone in the secreted house with naught but the dust of her thoughts for company.

It was two years to the day since the Battle of Hogwarts, yet the constant anxiety coursing through her veins never failed to remind her that the war was far from over. Many people wished to believe that the Dark Lord had disappeared after the destruction of his soul, but they were deluding themselves. The final battle had never really ended. If you listened closely against the cracks of society, terrible secrets and tortured whisperings grew to a deafening roar. The Death Eaters and their master had retreated to the outer edges of society, but the fear they had instilled still existed between the lines of the newsprint and within the heads of both young and old. Nothing much had changed since that day, perhaps nothing at all.

If anything was to be said, however, it was the fact that the darkness was much more hushed now that Voldemort had fallen from power. Every few weeks, there was news of mysterious deaths blamed on accidental magic or a potion gone wrong, and several disappearances to which no one paid any attention. Furthermore, the Ministry of Magic had become very secretive and withdrawn, "all is well," they had said. But in truth, the head of wizarding society was swiftly collapsing into a state of helplessness and fear.

These were heavy thoughts that the trio had sustained ever since the Dark Lord had returned in their fourth year. For as ugly and terrible as the truth was, it simply couldn't be overlooked. Voldemort had never been gone, nor was he at the present time. Until his corpse lay dead at their feet, the three would continue on with these things in mind, carrying the burden for the rest of the ignorant world.

Hermione sighed again—she'd been doing that too much for the past few days—and stared sadly at an old picture hanging on the wall. A younger Harry, Ron, and Hermione were looking back at her, laughing. The photo had been taken at the very end of their third year, just before they'd boarded the Hogwarts Express. Harry had sent the picture to Sirius over the summer, and his godfather had hung it on the wall proudly for everyone to see. Now, it served as a painful reminder of how simple and innocent life had been before it shattered from under their feet. When Harry had still smiled, Ron had told jokes, Hermione had gleefully studied, and Colin Creevey had still run about with his flashing camera. Those children were long dead now—Colin in a more physical sense—and they would never be resurrected by anything less than a miracle.

Hermione heard the small 'pop' that announced Harry's arrival, but she didn't move from her seat, barely registered his presence in the room.

"Hey Hermione," he said, kissing the top of her head and sitting down beside her.

She looked up then, taking in the appearance of her best friend. His shoulders sagged, his forehead was riddled with worried wrinkles, and his eyes were the same dull green as they'd been since the Hogwarts battle. He looked old just as she felt, which was to say ages and centuries old…

She was jerked out of her thoughts when Harry's hand swiped beneath her eyes. Ah, crying again. That tended to happen often now, especially when she was remembering.

"I know," he said softly.

She nodded. There was nothing else to be said.

Ron joined them an hour later, squeezing Hermione's hand and Harry's shoulder as they gazed in silence at the past.

Soon, the last of the sun had faded from the room, and they all got up soundlessly to prepare for the night. Hermione traveled to the stove where she began cooking supper for the boys and herself, warm smells mixing with the many memories that lingered in the air. Harry and Ron set the table for the three of them before retreating to their respective rooms to change out of their business robes. They met again once Hermione had finished cooking, and began speaking of the day's events.

"St. Mungo's hasn't had any unusual occurrences of the late, but I've almost completed my studies there," Hermione stated plainly. She'd taken up healing once the war of Hogwarts had come to an end; all of the bloodied bodies and missing limbs of her fellow students had driven her to tears on countless occasions, further prompting her to pursue a career in healing. For the past years, she'd shadowed several healers at St. Mungo's, done extensive research on all types of medical procedures—both muggle and wizard, and finally taken up nursing duties of her own. It was something that Hermione had always dreamt of accomplishing, but not at this time, nor under these circumstances. There were so many things that she'd hoped and wished for in her future, but as in any war, she was forced to put these things in a drawer of dreams and lock them away indefinitely. It was a painful reality, but there was nothing to do except to continue forward.

"So, no sign of any dark curses or other illnesses caused by dark objects?"

"No. It's been very subdued this month."

Harry nodded, "They've been much too quiet of late, it can't be good.

"It _has _been two years," she emphasized, "it's inevitable that he'll come back any day now."

"I'm surprised that he's even taken this long," Ron interjected.

"As am I, and now that I've lost the connection with him through my scar," Harry rubbed the famous marking, "I can't see or feel anything connected to him. It both relieves and frightens me."

"Well, haven't you heard anything at the ministry?" Hermione asked worriedly.

Ron shook his head, "Nothing exciting in my department, it seems like everyone is at a standstill."

Ron worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation where he involved himself in the affairs of other wizarding communities outside of England. He'd taken up the position after hearing rumors from Charlie that the Death Eaters had been seen traveling through Romania and the surrounding countries. It was quite a demanding job, and he traveled weekly to the other countries, sometimes going as far as Japan to collect information.

"You're positive, Ron? No murders or disappearances?"

"Nothing."

"Harry, what about the Auror's office? Surely something there?"

Harry was the head Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he worked with a small investigation team whose main purpose was to target and apprehend sources of dark magic-whether that would be a person or an object did not matter. The year after the war was especially busy for him, as he tirelessly worked to capture any Death Eaters or sympathizers.

Many of the Dark Ones had been killed in the battle, and still others deserted before it was over. The family and homes of those who had been seen fighting against the Light were heavily investigated, though the people themselves had vanished without a trace. The cells of Azkaban held many new members, and more trickled in every now and then. But compared to the masses that fought against the students of Hogwarts, these numbers were quite insignificant. The most troubling thought, however, was that several members of Voldemort's inner circle of Death Eaters had remained, including Bellatrix and Rabastian Lestrange, and the Malfoy family. With these people still under his power, and more still joining the ranks, there was a good cause for the unrest within the wizarding world.

"Nothing much, Hermione, but I did receive something in the post today." With a flick of his wand, a black envelope appeared on the kitchen table.

Hermione drew a sharp breath, "Harry, what is that?"

"You can really see it?" He asked excitedly.

"Are you barmy? Of course we can!" Ron said impatiently.

Harry looked at him reproachfully before replying; "An owl was sitting in the middle of my desk this morning when I came in. I knew that it couldn't have gotten in by itself, so I went to ask Seamus and John who had let it in. Neither of them had any idea what I was talking about, so we went back to my office, only to find the owl gone and this letter sitting in its place. But that's not what bothered me. When I picked up the letter, Stephen asked why someone would bother breaking into my office to deliver the Prophet."

"What?" Hermione interrupted.

"Exactly," Harry said. "The letter seems to be enchanted so that only the people it's intended for can see it. Everyone else in the office that I asked thought it to be a copy of the Daily Prophet."

Ron and Hermione stared at him with fearful shock.

"Why can we see it?" Ron asked darkly, already knowing the answer.

Harry turned the letter over, exposing a scrawl of words on the back:

_To:_

_Harry James Potter_

_Ronald Bilius Weasley_

_& Hermione Jean Granger_

"Harry, I hate to state the obvious, but it's dangerous. You don't know who sent it or what's inside of it. There could be a curse, a tracking device, a-

"Hermione," Harry cut her off, "Don't think that I've not considered all of this, but we both know something is changing, and it won't be long before it all starts again. This could be a _lead_."

That moment, Hermione saw something in her friend that she thought she'd never see again. It was a spark, a small light of hope ignited in the green glass of his eyes, begging her not to put out the flame. Her throat constricted, and she nodded numbly. If she'd said no, Hermione was sure that she'd not be able to bear the hollowness in his eyes again, it pained her too much to see him crushed that way.

Harry smiled, another rare occurrence, and began speaking again, "In my office today, I performed several spells to check the contents of the letter. I couldn't see much because the magic was too strong, but the structure looks nothing like the dark objects we usually get. Furthermore, I studied the composition of the ink and parchment, and found out that both are of high quality and very new. I believe that it's relatively safe."

Ron snorted, "_Relatively_ being the emphasized word."

Hermione shot a look at him, and then turned back to Harry, "Shall we open it then?"

Harry nodded, motioning his two friends to stand beside him. Wands at the ready, the trio turned to the ominous letter that sat in the center of the table.

"Aperi chartam."

The letter began to shake violently, tendrils of smoke pluming from within. Hermione clutched her wand tighter, praying that they hadn't made a grave mistake. With a final flash of light, the letter fell open.

"That was anticlimactic," Ron deadpanned.

Harry scoffed and slowly reached out to retrieve the letter. He pulled out a small sheet of parchment covered in dark, fluid words:

_Where there once was hope, there lingers none, safety is gone and the hour has come, he who killed with naught but spite has come again to douse the light. Darkness shall blanket this wretched land and all shall bow before his hand. Hide and try to fight you may, but none shall live to know the day. We the faithful come for you, we servants many against petty few. We are the shadow, the darkness, the night, and come we now to vanquish the light. We hold the cards and silver blades, we the owners of hearts and spades. Give in to silence and defeat or suffer greatly without retreat. Blood will cover all the ground and all the world shall hear the sound of screams and cries of endless pain, from those who fought against in vain. With the waning of the ghostly moon, and the eerie sound of the mermaid's tune, we come for you, the end is soon._

Hermione shivered, the dark rhyme still echoing in her head.

"A warning?" Ron asked, "Why would they want to give us a warning?"

"I don't understand it either…and to us of all people. They know we've been looking for them. There's something missing."

"Harry, you said that there was strong magic on this letter, and all we've been given is a poem. Nothing is missing, it's just hidden," Hermione said, studying the letter.

Ron looked inside the envelope again, "Nothing in here."

"I meant in the passage, Ronald. May I try something Harry?"

He handed her the letter carefully, watching as she pointed her wand at the parchment.

"Revela!" Nothing changed.

"Miscere litteras!" she frowned.

"Disponet sermones vobis!" Hermione commanded the paper, using all of her concentration to perform the spell.

The paper began smoking again, the inky letters melting into the parchment and saturating the white expanse. As the smoke cleared, the dark stains of ink began separating into letters, numerals, figures, and finally another paragraph.

The trio looked in awe at the piece of parchment.

"Merlin…"


	3. Chapter 2

...Somewhere on the Coast of Germany…

It was raining, just as it always did at this time of year. Everything smelled heavily of rotting wood, and the stars were hidden behind a churning blanket of mist that wafted sluggishly between every crevice and crown of the forest. A lone figure cloaked in robes of midnight black followed the path of mist, noiselessly traveling upon the carpet of pine needles. Every now and then, the he would stop and study the ground before resuming his trek through the thickening forest.

They'd been told to meet here again, presuming that no one had stumbled upon the location, be it muggle or magician. Soon, the trees became denser, the fog thicker, the sky blacker, and it seemed as if the forest in its entirety was attempting to snuff him out; smother him with the oppressive darkness that it hid within its heart. Each time, it became so much more difficult to make this journey, and not because his feet were leaden and his lungs screamed for air; but because his own heart became twisted and warped with every beat, and his mind compressed upon itself.

He knew that this was wrong; he'd always known it. Generations upon generations of his family had descended into darkness such as this, and to break that tradition, the sake of his name, was an unspeakable transgression that he'd never dared commit. He'd already seen the repercussions of sullying the old, pureblood name, and the images would be branded hot as fire upon the backs of his eyes until his dying day. It had taken death and war, and the loss of everything familiar to him, to finally accept this terrible reality, and cease to blindly follow them as he had been since childhood.

But the symbol upon his forearm burned as black as its caster's soul, and escape from this madness was improbable. And he was so very tired. A young wizard of twenty shouldn't have borne the perverse thoughts that ricocheted painfully within his head, nor seen so many purposeless, gruesome deaths, or been bound by invisible shackles to the Dark Ones. Yet, he was here in this forest, like the coward he'd always been. Only one form of reconciliation remained to him, and it took the form of a mysterious letter written to one Harry Potter.

Perhaps there was hope for them yet, their cursed generation. Perhaps the Golden Trio would forgive him if this endeavor did succeed. Perhaps…

He stepped into the small clearing, pulling away his hood to reveal a shock of pale hair, "Ah, if it isn't the young Master. Come, we've been waiting for you."


	4. Chapter 3

Hermione was hunched over the kitchen table, her hair spilling around her shoulders in atrocious, frizzy disarray, and her face was scrunched tightly in concentration. Wads of crumpled papers littered the floor around her, and the numerous ink stains upon the fair skin of her fingers had smudged dreadfully beneath her tired eyes as she rubbed away the sleepiness.

All night she had sat here with the mysterious letter, trying to decipher the jumble of letters and numbers that had appeared at her command. Whoever had written this to them was quite clever, Hermione hadn't stayed up this late working since her days in Hogwarts. She knew that it was some kind of code; a message within the message, but it was proving difficult for her to find any patterns within the elegant script.

She heard footsteps descending the creaking stairs and let out an exasperated groan. It was morning already; she'd not gotten a wink of sleep, yet it was time already to prepare for work.

Harry's worried face materialized in the doorway, "Hermione, tell me you didn't stay out here all night."

She sighed tiredly in reply.

Rolling his eyes, Harry walked towards the kitchen stove and set a cauldron onto the flames, "I'll brew you a pepper-up potion if you promise me to take a break from the letter."

"Alright," she conceded, and began tidying up the mess that she'd created.

"Ahem," came Harry's amused voice. Hermione looked up at his outstretched hand and huffed in annoyance before carefully folding up the letter and dropping it onto his palm.

"I'll try to decipher it if I've got time between meetings, but I don't want you looking at it again till tomorrow," he said kindly.

Hermione smiled and rose on her toes to hug Harry before trudging up to her room so that she might wash up and dress for St. Mungo's. Ten minutes later, Hermione reappeared in the kitchen decked out in hospital robes and ballet flats, greeting a very disoriented Ron at the table. Harry was still banging around loudly at the stove—whenever the boys cooked, it was always an event—and she could smell the tingling scent of the pepper-up potion filling the small kitchen space.

Soon, said potion was handed to her, and she downed the fizzling cobalt liquid in one large gulp. Her hair stood on end, and she felt tiny zaps of electricity firing down her throat.

"Better?" asked Harry.

"Much, thank you," she replied chirpily.

The rest of the day proceeded as usual; the three bade each other goodbye at the blackened fireplace, grabbed a generous handful of emerald floo power, and were promptly whisked away to the rest of their busy day.

Hermione, feeling much more lively after the pepper-up potion, carried on without hindrance, the only exception being the small niggling voice that reminded her about the mysterious letter. All day long, visions the curling, raven script danced at the forefront of her mind, and she pushed them away persistently only to have them return an hour later. It was quite annoying, but she couldn't help but feel that there was something she was missing.

_Meanwhile…_

Harry slumped down into the crimson cushions of his office chair, running a hand over his face wearily. It had been a day full of meetings, worrying, and more meetings. He was completely exhausted from the mental strain. Pausing, he and stared up at the ceiling, the blank, white expanse staring right back at him. That is, if ceilings could actually stare…

Harry shook his head, clearing his thoughts. His eyes then fell to a corner of his desk in which there was a concealed drawer; and in that drawer was the letter. Grabbing his wand and muttering a spell, the drawer flew open and the little rectangle of parchment landed squarely in the center of his mahogany desk, opening on impact to reveal the taunting black script. Hermione had slaved away all of last night attempting to decipher this letter without success. Harry doubted he would do any better, but nonetheless set out to untangle the mystery from the web of ink.

An hour later, he gave up. His head was aching, his eyes blurred from squinting at the gibberish, and his hope substantially defeated. This was the most promising lead they'd had in months, but it lay impassive and unintelligible right before him. It was the most maddening situation he'd ever been in, with the possible exception of occulmency lessons in the company of Snape.

He began drumming his wand and left index finger upon the edge of his desk—a bad habit he'd formed in third year—creating a rhythm-less beat and letting his mind wander. Suddenly, his wand hissed and shot ruby sparks over the letter, causing him to fall back in surprise.

Scrambling upright, he clutched the desk frantically for the letter, fearing that he'd set it alight with the sparks form his wand. Instead, the sparks had caused the letter to change again; and he watched in wonder as the paper folded and curled on itself to form what appeared to be a howler.

_Potter…_ It began in a whispered tone. And from that one whisper of his name, an icy dread crawled through Harry's veins.

_Potter, _the letter continued, _listen carefully before you crumple this up or throw it into your rubbish bin. This is not a letter to be shared with anyone beside yourself and in dire need, Granger and Weasley, and you'll know what I mean by dire need shortly. For now, what I am about to say is between you and me. Tell someone, and the curse on this letter will come into effect; you won't find yourself saying much of anything at all after that. Now that the threats are over, I'll get to my point. I want out. Out of this insane hell that I've gotten myself into._

He paused, his voice becoming somber, _there are things in this war that I have seen, that I have done, and I can no longer ignore the consequences of these things…I'm a wanted man, and I know that you and Weasel are looking for me. I'm not about to turn myself in, because it's far too late for me to be pardoned, but I am guilty, I am finished, and I am tired._

There was another pause, as he struggled with words, _I'm going to help you Potter. And we will both hate it, but we both know that this needs to end. But if any…_there was a long pause…_just remember this…remember that I tried. _The voice then regained it's confidence, though now the tone was more formal and instructive; _You'll notice that although this letter was meant for you, I included Weasley and Granger's names on the envelope. Though you can't tell them what I've said, you'll need them. The jumble of letters and numbers in this parchment are code; take out all of the letters and you'll have numbers. Each set of numbers represents a date, address, and time. The dates are planned events in which the Death Eaters will wreak general havoc on the world. Let Granger decipher the code and give you the dates, times, etc. but you cannot tell her of this conversation. As for Weasley, keep him around with you, if he keeps traveling, he'll be dead by next month. If he asks about the letter, just tell him that you and Granger solved it. The less involved he is at this point in time, the less we must worry about. _

The voice softened again, and Harry almost thought he heard sorrow in its tone; _Keep them close Potter. We're watching and we know where the three of you are whenever you leave the boundaries of your fidelius charm…_

The voice faded off into the swirling dust of Harry's office, and the paper straightened itself and settled back upon the wood of his desk. Harry stared at the black and white hope that lay innocently before him, the other man's voice still resonating within his head.

Harry closed his eyes slowly and exhaled. Hope.

Smiling minutely at the letter, once again jumble of words, he took a quill from his desk and crossed out the first two lines of letters. Then, on a separate piece of parchment, he re-wrote the numbers that remained on the lines. Once he had done this, he tapped his wand to the paper, commanding it to reveal the location and time.

As new words appeared, Harry's heart sped, and each blackened figure that stabbed the white expanse of parchment added to his trepidation.

Soon, the letter was hastily shoved into his cloak, an inkwell overturned upon his pristine desk and his door banging closed against the wall.

For when the words had come together, the first location said:

_St. Mungo's, May the 3__rd__ at 3 in the afternoon_

_…_

She was in the children's ward when they attacked. The world was suddenly engulfed in fire, and rain came down in the form of scalding sparks, chinks of mortar and brick, and splintering beams. Her ears bled just as much as her eyes, perceiving the destruction and listening to the shrill shrieks and the desolate wailing of the wounded and frightened. She was vaguely aware of herself; standing pale and motionless in the midst of destruction, the midst of war, in the midst of tiny bodies that were both still and flailing, watching the snowy ashes descend. The figures came like twisted shadows, their masks shining silver, robes billowing black in the wake of their devastation. Colors streamed like starlight showers before her dilated eyes, crackling followed by the thud of bodies and screams of tortured.

It was a symphony of death, and she stumbled numbly and blankly without hearing the music.

They left just as abruptly as they'd come, with smiles forever etched upon their terrible silver faces, and the symbol of their master grinning approvingly over their destruction. Hermione, still huddled with the bloodied children in a small barricaded corner, stared blankly and unapprehending as one of the faces suddenly looked her way.

It was the only one of them that lingered there, and she weakly realized that it was walking towards her. Struggling, she lifted her wand arm, only to be disarmed immediately. Clutching the children tight to her breast, she soundlessly screamed as the figure bent and reached toward her.

But the touch wasn't hurtful or vicious; it was gentle and insisting.

"Come!" it hissed.

Hermione recoiled and struck out at it. Her throat, scratchy and raw, somehow became unclogged, "Murderer!" she screamed, tears striking through her sooty face. "You cannot take them!"

The figure recoiled at her words, staring at her through soulless eyes. Then, it was gone.

And that was how Harry found Hermione, sobbing and surrounded by death.


End file.
